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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27532888">A Home We Never Left</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk'>Z A Dusk (snakeandmoon)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, and nothing but the fluff your honor, i put down my CEO of angst crown to write these, just the fluff, seriously my local chocolate factory called and they want their sugar back, this is all fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 06:54:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27532888</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Here be all my fluff ficlet prompts from my gorgeous Tumblr followers!</p><p>Not beta read. But still pretty good if you need a shot of something heart-warming packed with tenderness and comfort.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Table of Contents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Table of Contents</strong>
</p><p><a href="#section0002">Soup for the Soul</a> - In which Crowley is sick and Aziraphale makes him soup.</p><p><a href="#section0003">Snickerdoodles</a> - In which Crowley attempts to back cookies for Aziraphale</p><p><a href="#section0004">A Whirly Demon</a> - In which Crowley need to learn cartwheels - and Aziraphale is ready to help.</p><p><a href="#section0005">Of Baking and Blankets</a> - In which and angel and a demon are cosy and happy together in their cottage.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Soup for the Soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prompt: Crowley has a cold and Aziraphale makes him soup.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Stop fussing, angel.”</p><p>“Crowley, you’re sick. I still do not understand for the life of me how …”</p><p>“I said. I was fixing my wings after the altercation with that harpy, so my energy was more open than normal, and Pepper went and sneezed ..”</p><p>“Yes, no manners sometimes, that little gang. Still Crowley, a cold. Of all the human things.”</p><p>“Alright, tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you?” Crowley groused. “Just grab us some wine and a blanket, will you?”</p><p>The angel narrowed his eyes and Crowley knew he’d lost the battle.“I am not bringing you wine when you are sick.” He said firmly, as he miracled up a red tartan blanket and draped it over Crowley, fluffing and fussing at the pillows behind his head. “I am making you soup.”</p><p>“Soup? Angel, no -” But he was already padding determinedly towards the kitchen. Crowley, having been on the receiving end of Aziraphale’s culinary experiments before, wondered if the cure would prove more deadly than the disease. Resigned to his fate, he burrowed under the blanket (which he had to admit was very soft), idly thumbing his phone screen and starting a few pointless social media arguments to while away the time and soothe his infernal soul.He must have drifted off to sleep, because suddenly he was emerging from the dark and blinking at Aziraphale, trying to figure out why the cottage smelled of tomatoes and garlic.</p><p>“Now, dear boy. Drink this.”Aziraphale pressed a steaming mug of something into his hands. Crowley sniffed it cautiously, casting a suspicious look at Aziraphale.</p><p>“You made this?”</p><p>“Of course.” The angel sniffed.</p><p>“You didn’t miracle it?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Somehow that’s scarier.” Crowley took another sniff. “What’s in it?”</p><p>“For goodness’ sake, Crowley, it’s soup. Just drink it.”</p><p>Crowley sighed. If it would make Aziraphale happy … he took a sip, immediately wrinkling his nose.“What is that?”</p><p>“Honestly, you are making such a fuss.” Aziraphale adjusted the blanket around Crowley’s shoulders. “It’s just tomatoes and onions with garlic, lemon, parsley, chili, black pepper, and ginger. Drink it. You’ll feel better. Madame Tracy told me it’s an old family recipe.”</p><p>Crowley took one look at the angel’s hopeful face, bit back at least six sarcastic comments, and took a sip. It tasted like hot tomato juice having a temper tantrum. Closing his eyes, he took another sip. And another.</p><p>Blast it all, he could feel it gently warming him from the inside out.  It was soothing and nourishing and to his surprise, he’d downed the cup in no time.</p><p>“How do you feel?”Aziraphale asked, smoothing Crowley’s hair back from his forehead in a way that still made him weak after all these months living together.<br/><br/>“It’s soup, not a miracle cure … wait, I’m starting to feel better.”</p><p>Aziraphale grinned at him. “I shall call Tracy and tell her the recipe worked as promised.”</p><p>“Thanks, angel. I still feel a bit congested though. Perhaps you ought to rub some VapoRub on me, just to be safe?”</p><p>“Wily serpent.” Aziraphale muttered with a gleam in his eye. “But first you simply must try the tea recipe she gave me …”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Snickerdoodles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prompt: Cookies</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley glared at the flour. It wouldn’t dare be lumpy, whether he sieved it or not. This had seemed like such a good idea. A simple thing that would make Aziraphale smile. And surely a millennias-old demon could wrangle a few simple ingredients?</p><p>Apparently not.The first batch of snickerdoodles (their name is so fun, Crowley! I love them for that alone) had tasted, inexplicably, of meat pies. Which was all very well for meat pies, but not ideal for cookies.</p><p>The second batch came out of the oven on fire, and Crowley had to miracle his eyebrows back after extinguishing the blaze.</p><p>The third batch looked like cookies, but were hard and heavy enough to use as hockey pucks. </p><p>“Listen, you floury little shits, you are going to come out right this time, or I’m going to feed you to the nearest Hellhound.” Crowley told the next batch, before shoving them in the oven.</p><p>He’d invented selfies, Glasgow, and most television, for Satan’s sake. How could it be this hard to bake a damn batch of cookies?</p><p>It wasn’t as if Aziraphale had asked for them. He’d mentioned them in passing (do you remember snickerdoodles, Crowley? We had some fresh made by the landlady when we stayed in that little B&amp;B by Lake Elmore …)</p><p>Of course Crowely remembered. It was 1952 and they’d snuck off to Vermont for a weekend together. They’d eaten the soft cinnamon flavoured cookies while sitting on the shore of the lake. After, they’d gone boating. Or at least, Crowley had rowed while Aziraphale sat in the boat and read him poetry.</p><p>It was one of Crowley’s favourite memories of his long life. So when Aziraphale had mentioned snickerdoodles he’d thought … well … it would probably make the angel smile. And that was always worth the effort.</p><p>The batch came out with the texture of wet cardboard.</p><p>Growling, Crowley grabbed his phone and read the recipe again. He’d done everything right. OK, he’d cut one or two corners. He’d used baking powder instead of cream of tartar, and he’d chilled the dough to hasten things along.</p><p>Suddenly he remembered one of their many phone calls during lockdown.“Baking is chemistry, dear boy. You can throw things haphazardly, garnish, and hope for the best while cooking, but for baking I find it best to follow the recipe exactly. And treat the ingredients gently. Bake love into them, if you will.”</p><p>“Angel, that’s so cheesy.” Crowley had teased, but now … now the conversation was nagging at him. </p><p>Sighing, he gathered the ingredients one more time. </p><p>“If I treat you nicely and measure you like I’m on the Great British Bake Off , do you promise to be edible? Right.”</p><p>An hour later, Crowley strolled nonchalantly into the bookshop and put the box of cookies (which he may or may not have tied with a tartan ribbon) on the table, with a casual “alright, angel?” </p><p>Aziraphale leaned forward with a look of excitement, opening the lid and taking a deep breath as the scent of still-warm cookies filled the air.</p><p>“Snickerdoodles! Oh Crowley, how lovely! And you made these for me?”</p><p>Crowley shrugged. “Was bored.”</p><p>Aziraphale gave him a knowing smile. “Were you now? Anyway my dear, I am very grateful.”</p><p>Crowley felt a smile spreading across his face as Aziraphale poured tea for them both, then took a bite of cookie. A look of rapture crossed his face.</p><p>“Crowley, these are delicious! Do you remember when we first ate snickerdoodles together?”</p><p>“Yeah, angel, I do.</p><p>”Aziraphale put the cookie down and smiled at him then, reaching to cup Crowley’s cheek softly.</p><p>“Perhaps we might go away again? I hear Scotland is lovely at this time of year.”</p><p>Crowley felt his heart stutter.“Sure. Do you know any good shortbread recipes?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Whirly Demon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prompt: Cartwheels, which was quite frankly one of the funnest and most unexpected prompts I've had!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Crowley?” Aziraphale sat down on the kerb beside the demon. “Why are you moping outside my bookshop?”</p><p>“Not moping. Drinking.” Crowley brandished the bottle of wine at him as if that explained everything.</p><p>“Nevertheless, I cannot have you out here, bringing down the tone. Come on.” He hauled Crowley to his feet. The demon made a half-hearted protest, then followed Aziraphale into the bookshop.</p><p>Once he was ensconced on the couch, glasses flung on a nearby table, Aziraphale sat down next to him with a concerned look that made Crowley both want to squirm away, and move closer to the angel’s warmth.</p><p>“Spit it out, Crowley. Why so glum?”Crowley made a non-committal noise. Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. Oh bless it, he was going to do it. He was going to tell him. If he was allowed to help Aziraphale sometimes, maybe he was allowed to ask, too?</p><p>“Got an assignment. Gymnastics. Don’t ask why.” He added, holding up a hand as if to bat away any incoming questions. “Some super-rich corrupt person is coaching the team and Beez wants me on the squad … bloody ridiculous, I feel like a right arse.”</p><p>“Why? Gymnastics is quite elegant, and you are certainly … flexible.”</p><p>“I cantdocarweel.”Crowley muttered, to Aziraphale’s understandable bemusement.</p><p>“Beg pardon?”Crowley ground his teeth. “I said, I can’t do a cartwheel.”</p><p>“Oh .. .must you?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“And you can’t …?”</p><p>“Nope. Too snakey, aren’t I? Can’t get the form right.”</p><p>“Oh.” Aziraphale poured some of the wine into a glass that hadn’t been there a moment earlier, and took a sip. “I could … help you.”</p><p>“Help me?” Satan, he was not sober enough for this. With a grimace, he willed himself sober, and raised an eyebrow at the angel.</p><p>“Yes. Help me clear some floor space, would you?”</p><p>As Crowley pushed furniture aside and carefully rolled up the angel’s best rug, he wondered what Aziraphale was planning to do. He silently hoped his prowess at gymnastics was more impressive than his magic tricks.When the room was clear, Crowley found himself pulled to the centre by an eager angel, who immediately took charge of his body, planting his feet on the floor, running warm hands up Crowley’s arms to position them, angling his palms just so.</p><p>“Now you lead with this leg … yes, just so … that hand down first, then the other … try to keep on that line of the floorboard there … keep your legs straight as they go up and over … well that was promising, at least. Get up dear, let’s try again.”</p><p>Several rather tiring hours later, Crowley had mastered a passable cartwheel. As he swung himself into one more, he accidentally collided with Aziraphale, who had turned to move a pile of books. They collapsed onto the floor in a laughing heap, sneaking a gentle kiss or two as they settled.</p><p>“Angel …” Crowley leaned down to kiss Aziraphale’s nose, fingertips playing gently over the pulse in his neck. “How the Hell did you learn to do cartwheels?”</p><p>Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes twinkling. “I won’t ask you why you have to do them now, if you don’t ask where I learned.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” Crowley murmured, distracted by being so close to his angel. “So should I come to you for instructions on how to use the pommel horse, too?”</p><p>Aziraphale leaned up and kissed him again, laughing warmly against him. “My dear, I don’t think even I could help you with any kind of horse.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Of Baking and Blankets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prompt: Cottagecore, cozy, maybe something with baking or being warm while it rains outside.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The warm scent of fresh bread curled through the kitchen, filling the corners with its delicious aroma, as Crowley carefully lifted the loaf from the oven, using a minor miracle to persuade it to the perfect temperature for slicing.</p><p>It had taken him several months to master baking bread. It turned out that while a little miracle to keep the bread warm after baking was alright, no amount of demonic magic could make up for measuring the water temperature with a thermometer, being meticulous about the amount of salt and sugar, and calculating the perfect rising time.</p><p>It took just as much care and attention as bringing down the London phone network, or designing Glasgow, and it made his angel much happier.</p><p>It was raining again, the kind of steady autumn rain that Crowley loved. Even in the dark he could see it running down the leaves of the apple trees and soaking the late blooms of violets and roses.</p><p>“Bread’s done.”</p><p>He announced as he strolled into the living room, where Aziraphale was sitting straight-backed on the comfy couch, looking like he was about to either give Crowley some very good news, or a literary lecture (both of which amounted to the same thing, in Aziraphale’s eyes.)</p><p>“Lovely. You’re so kind, baking for me.”</p><p>“Not kind. Demon.”</p><p>Aziraphale gave him an impossibly fond smile that made Crowley think all sorts of undemonic things. Like “Yes, I am kind. For you I always want to be.” Instead, he sat down beside his husband, putting the plate of warm buttered bread on the coffee table, and giving Aziraphale a quizzical look.</p><p>“Something on your mind, angel?”</p><p>“I made you something.” The angel blurted out as if he couldn’t keep it inside any more. Leaning over the arm of the sofa, he rummaged in the tartan carpet bag that had taken up residence there. Then, as if by magic - or maybe by magic, he might have been practicing - he produced something that was far too big to have fitted in one carpet bag. He handed the bundle to Crowley, with a smile that was clearly torn between hope and worry.</p><p>As if Aziraphale could ever give Crowley a gift, and Crowley do less than treasure it forever.And so, he accepted delivery of a very large and very soft crochet blanket, in black wool that became a vibrant red near the bottom of the blanket. The stitches were chunky and tactile, resembling nothing so much as snake scales.</p><p>“It’s called crocodile stitch” Aziraphale told him, “though I think they look close enough to snake scales to count.”</p><p>Crowley, not trusting himself not to cry, could only nod.</p><p>“You always did like snake aesthetics, and I see no reason for you to give that up now. And it does get nippy here in the winter.”</p><p>Crowley gazed at his angel, his heart nearly bursting out of his chest with adoration. Every time he’d taken a nap or pottered in the garden, Aziraphale must have worked on the blanket. The slight variations in the stitches told him that each one had been crocheted by hand, not a miracle in sight. Tucking his arm around Aziraphale, he pulled him closer and draped the blanket over them both.</p><p>“I love it.” He told the angel honestly, with a soft kiss. “Now let’s eat the bread before it gets cold.”</p><p>“As if it would dare.” Aziraphale laughed, though he took a slice and bit into it anyway, with an appreciative sound. When he’d finished, he leaned closer into Crowley, tucking his head into the crook of his neck. Burying his nose in the angel’s soft hair, Crowley let himself close his eyes, let the crackling of the fire and the patter of the rain outside lull him until all trouble melted away and the only thought in his mind was how much he was looking forward to an eternity in their cottage, creating things the human way, and loving each other.</p>
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